The Dead Do Not Rest Here
by Bomani Akila Neteru
Summary: He never thought it would end this way. That he, of all people, would be deceived. Especially not by the one he trusted most. Scoundrel/Dark!Female!Necromancer


"Lyndon!" The terrified shriek came from a pair of plump, dark lips; which usually only rasped out soft responses. The scoundrel barely heard her, however. He stared down in confusion at the demonic, jagged blade that now protruded from his abdomen. Partially out of habit, and partially out of desperate hope, Lyndon raised his eyes to his pale, gothic dressed companion. She was always there for him. Always at his side, ready to pull him out of danger. She was always the strong one. Surely, she could save him now.

But she didn't look… she didn't _look_ strong. Not this time.

Pale skin was pulled taut with horror, and dark, sunken eyes were wide and filled with terrified tears, her lips were pulled back in a scream his static laden ears couldn't hear. His confusion only mounted.

Why was she so scared? He couldn't die. He was _Lyndon_.

But Lyndon's body betrayed his mind and spirit. Refusing to continue to fight; it allowed itself to be torn apart. White hot agony lanced through his entire being, unlike anything he had ever felt before. He tried to scream past the gurgling of blood flowing into his mouth, and found himself drowning. The last thing Lyndon heard, before his body and mind finally shut down, and his spirit departed from the world; was an enraged, psychotic scream, piercing through his cotton stuffed ears.

And then he was gone.

She couldn't believe it. _Wouldn't_ believe it. Refused to accept it. Lyndon was gone. Her constant, snarky, sarcastic companion was _gone_. Fury mounted within her chest; and she raised her hand high over her head, lips pulling back over sharp canine's in a snarl. She screamed her command, and the dead rushed to follow their necromantic leader's orders. Their bony hands scrambled over the hordes of hell, and their weapons hacked through her enemies like they were nothing.

It didn't take long for them to ream through what remained of this level of hell's denizens.

For a long moment, the necromancer was quiet. Then, she knelt at Lyndon's side, taking in the damage with wet eyes, and trembling hands. Though tears spilt over her high cheek bones and splashed down to the red, vein filled ground below; her breathing remained even. The priests of Rathma had taught her as much. Emotion was to weigh little on them as they served the balance above all else. It had been a painful lesson.

She sneered angrily. The balance, the _balance_ , the _**balance**_. It was all they _fucking_ talked about!

Who cared about the _fucking_ **balance**?!

The necromancer trembled harder. Lyndon's body had been reamed in half via hook blades. Stabbed through his chest, and then yanked in opposite directions. It was nothing short of horrifying and gruesome. He did not deserve this. How long had Lyndon followed her? Surely, not as long as the Templar. But the holy man had not called her friend until they had breached heaven's gates. _Lyndon_ had called her friend since a little after they had met. Unperturbed by the skeletons and decaying golem that followed her around. In fact, he often grinned and commented on them, admiring their strength and usefulness. Their undying loyalty.

Lyndon had been her first ever friend. As a necromancer; those were in short supply.

She raised a trembling, gloved finger to her lips, as though shushing the corpse. Her jaw clenched so hard it shook violently. Her options swirled around in her head, each more painful and blasphemous then the last. Her heart ached painfully, throbbing and seeming to pump poisonous fire through her veins.

At last, she made her decision. She would not lose him. Not like this. Hell, not ever.

Clenching her teeth, the necromancer raised a hand above her head, as though to command the very forces of heaven and hell. They had come this far; they were nearly to Diablo himself- she would not let their journey together end here, like this. He would be with her until the very end; she would not accept anything less.

With only the dead as the witness to her crime; she focused her power, and committed the ultimate betrayal. Both to Lyndon, and to her order. A forbidden spell rose to the surface.

Her power was unleashed in a single order. But unlike the wildly whipping forces she usually commanded, this was tighter; almost leashed, but not quite. It was, by no means, tame. It never would be. But she took her time, trusting her faithful minions to guard her as she worked. More thought was put into Lyndon's rebirth then she had ever put into any of her other warrior's. She whispered to herself, bringing her hands down to what remained of Lyndon's body. Her fingers wove through the air, encouraging her delicate and desperate work. It took her nearly an hour to reform him.

Muscle and sinew knitted themselves back together, bone snapped back into place, melding seamlessly, and cartilage melted back together, as though it had never been broken.

Lyndon was reborn. But he did not look as he once did.

The only obvious mark of his grievous wound, was the stitched scar that ran from his abdomen, up over his shoulder, down around, and connected back to itself in a loop. But his skin was dark grey, his eyes glazed, and his stance slumped, as though tired. A zombie, nearly in every sense of the word. But he looked like Lyndon, and he would act like Lyndon beneath the surface, and that was enough for her.

As far as she was concerned, he was back.

Smiling, she leaned in, one gloved hand caressing the side of his face; and whispered in his ear.

XxX

Lyndon had died. That much, he knew. The blade had pierced through him, before ripping him apart. Then, it had been dark. He had, he believed, been at peace. Or perhaps, he was simply shocked by the sudden change and was still because of it. Either way; Lyndon had been, undeniably _deceased_.

And then, it was over, just as quickly as it had started. Somewhere in the distance, he had felt his body come back together. At first, it had only felt as little prickles. And then, it was as though someone were repeatedly stabbing him, sending more white hot pain through him. Yet, unlike before, he couldn't cry out.

No noise left his throat, despite his thrashing.

Then, without warning- he was back. Like being shoved into a suit that was suddenly two sizes too small; Lyndon was back in his body. He struggled wildly, desperately wanting to return to that peaceful darkness. But to no avail. His body and spirit refused to listen to him; as though he were shackled tightly by some unseen force. Sewn into place with an unbreakable twine.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to fight, to _flee_ \- but he could do nothing.

A soft, unseen object smoothed down the side of Lyndon's face lovingly; the caress so familiar it _hurt_. Then, a pair of lips brushed over the shell of his ear tenderly.

"Welcome back, Lyndon." The beautiful, raspy whisper sent chilling, cold air over his flesh; but no goosebumps rose to meet it.

As though it were a command, sight returned to him, and Lyndon failed to hold back his absolute _horror_. The necromancer's visage filled his sight; smiling kindly at him, though it seemed… _wrong_. Almost warped. He struggled harder; but his flesh failed him, refusing to respond, as though he were encased in ice.

"Come, my friend." Why did that term sound so wrong coming from her? "Let us finish up here." she turned and started for the way to leave the hell rift they had come to seal shut from the inside. Obediently, Lyndon's body followed her.

As they walked, she smiled over at him, "Don't worry. I won't let anything hurt you. From now on, my army will defend you as they would me, and our enemies will have to go through me to get you. You will be safe."

Lyndon wanted nothing more then to scream for her to let go, to beg her to just let him _rest_ ; but his body wouldn't listen. His spirit cried at the injustice of it.

They left the last hellrift, the portal closed behind them; and with it, Lyndon's very life.

"Do not fear the end!" The woman at Lyndon's side cried, raising her hand and sending her army forth into the crowd of enemy demons. Somehow, the scoundrel found her words to be hypocritical. Wasn't it her that said death shouldn't prolonged? That it should be accepted because it was part of the balance?

Lyndon's thoughts were cut off as his arms- still cradling the crossbow the blacksmith had made for him- raised and he took aim against his will. Without thought, his body began to fire off, standing behind the necromancer as he helped her take down enemy after enemy.

It seemed as though his body wouldn't stop betraying him; no matter how hard he fought.

XxX

Lyndon's inner thoughts became bitter as he and the necromancer walked side by side into town, surrounded by her _pets_ as though they were an armed escort. Though, he supposed they were. As they passed through Bastion's Keep, mothers covered their children's eyes and gazed at them in absolute horror; and men stumbled back away from them as though they were demons themselves.

The scoundrel couldn't blame them.

Filled with pain, he let go of the fight; letting his body do whatever it wished. It was only serving to make him tired- if he even _could_ be tired after dying. But Lyndon was quick to resume his struggle when they drew closer to the necromancer's destination.

The templar and enchantress. Like brother and sister to him; he couldn't bare them to see him like this. Not like this.

But _she_ wasn't giving him a choice.

"No…" Kormac breathed out in horror,

"I-It cannot be!" Eirena's hands clasped over her mouth and she let out a little sob,

"I'm sorry." The necromancer whispered, "It happened quickly. I saved what I could. I think… I think he would have wanted to see this to the end, in some way."

"You did your best." Kormac murmured sadly, putting a hand on her shoulder. But he grimaced at Lyndon slightly, clearly unnerved by his blank, unseeing stare and his deathly appearance.

'You _lying_ piece of…' His mental hiss went unheard. Clearly, this was only the beginning of this nightmare. And he could do nothing; even as his friends mourned his 'passing' right in front of his eyes- all without ever knowing that he was still there.

Held against his will.

XxX

Lyndon watched in a numb state of unfeeling; as though he were in shock. After supper- in which he watched as everyone else ate- the necromancer had headed to her personal room within Bastion's Keep. She had stated that heaven could last one more day, and nephilim or not, she needed rest in order to serve the balance.

He had felt a wave of hatred at that.

"I can hear your thoughts, you know." She whispered once she had closed the door, leaving them alone in her dark, sparsely decorated room, "I am so sorry… perhaps one day, you will forgive me. You are my first friend, I could not give you up. Not like that."

Lyndon struggled further, angry suddenly, leaving the numbness behind as she drew close to him, pressing against his chest.

"It's okay Lyndon. Soon, you'll realize the gift I've given you. Immortality. Isn't that what most mortals strive for…?" The necromancer removed her glove carefully, before smoothing her icy hand down the side of his face. It was like touching a corpse, or a block of snow.

Had she always been this cold?

"Lyndon…" She sighed sadly, drawing back and away from him, "It pains me to know how angry you are with me. But it will pass, in time… after all, we have all of eternity."

Dread and panic flooded him as she settled down on her bed, leaning back into the pillows with a thoughtful, depressed expression.

"How much have I given the balance…?" The ivory woman murmured, "So, so much. A lack of friends or companionship, complete and utter obedience… and that is just the start. You simply have no idea." she shook her head, "Surely this one time wouldn't upset the balance? Surely I could spare, and have, just one friend?"

She sounded so desperate, so hopeful; _so broken_.

But Lyndon was too angry, too hurt to even want to sympathize or comfort her.

The necromancer's face fell, becoming even sadder and more shattered, before she attempted a half hearted, watery smile. Despite the teachings of Rathma, it seemed she could still feel _something_. For some reason, that made Lyndon all the angrier.

"Come here." She patted the spot on the bed next to her, and without warning, his body clunkily follower her command. Rigor Mortis had long since set in, but his form still continued to betray him, and follow its new mistress faithfully.

Lyndon laid down on the bed next to her, where she had indicated.

"Rest, we'll talk more in the morning." The gentle command had his eyes closing; but for him there was no rest.

The dead do not rest here, after all.


End file.
